


This Tracy/Hepburn Thing

by china_shop



Series: Waltzverse [8]
Category: White Collar
Genre: Dancing, Dating, Ex-Boyfriends, F/M, Rare Pairings, Romantic Comedy, Snark and Banter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-29
Updated: 2015-04-29
Packaged: 2018-03-26 07:05:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3841627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/china_shop/pseuds/china_shop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Happy endings come in all shapes and sizes. </p><p>(I know it sounds weird, but trust me and give it a chance. They are adorable!)</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Tracy/Hepburn Thing

**Author's Note:**

> Pulangaraw said this 'verse is like a White Collar season 7, so think of this as the inevitable Mozzie-centric episode. Sort of?
> 
> A million thanks to: mergatrude for first-reading and beta, and Sherylyn for beta and Ameripicking. <3

The kiss was unplanned and unforeseen, but the real shock was how good it was: confident, sensual, neither too wet nor too dry. The small part of Sara's brain that was sitting back providing commentary knew it was a mistake, but somehow that just made it hotter.

"Before we do this—" Mozzie broke away to say, "—can we agree that it's a terrible idea, neither of us is the other's type, and no one can ever find out. Especially not Neal."

"Definitely not Neal," echoed Sara, and yanked Mozzie close again by his blue patterned shirt. Then it was her turn to pull back. "Wait, why am _I_ not _your_ type?"

"Seriously?"

"You're right. Never mind."

 

*

 

After the fiasco of her attempted assassination and consequent faked death a few years earlier, Sara had made a point of socializing with her work colleagues, trying to create a clique, to engineer the camaraderie one saw on TV shows and in movies. She'd organized outings to expensive wine bars, even hosted a couple of catered dinner parties, but the few friendships that survived her associating with a convicted felon and then aiding in Bryan McKenzie's arrest had dissipated after her move to London. 

She wasn't a holiday-card-list kind of girl. She'd accepted that about herself.

She certainly hadn't kept in touch with Neal's crowd or the White Collar team he worked with. But she was in New York on business for the first time since her departure, and Winston Bosch had canceled a dinner meeting, so on a whim she called June to ask if she could visit. June had always been kind.

It was a pleasantly cool evening for the time of year, and when she climbed out of her cab on Riverside Drive, there were lights on in the penthouse apartment. The sight gave her a frisson of nostalgia and loneliness. She missed having someone to relax and laugh with. But she wasn't here to see Neal.

The maid showed her into June's parlor, with its rich furnishings, faint scent of expensive furniture polish and lamplight that seemed to warm every surface. June and Mozzie were playing cards at a card table, mocking each other in grand tones of voice. 

"Sara, my dear." June folded her cards and swiveled to greet her. "Excuse me if I don't get up."

"Of course," said Sara. She pulled up a chair. "Who's winning?"

"Let's just say I haven't gambled away my entire liquor collection, but it's a near thing," said June.

Mozzie shot her a stern glance. "You are more than holding your own, Madam. Stop angling for sympathy."

"But I'm so very good at it." June laughed, including Sara in the joke.

She grinned back. "It's very good to see you. I'm sorry it's been so long. Hi, Mozzie."

"Vicki Anderson." When she looked at him blankly, he added, "Faye Dunaway? _The Thomas Crown Affair_? Oh, never mind. I suppose you're here because you heard about Neal."

"Not since he stopped replying to my emails last year. What about Neal?" Perhaps he'd finally completed his sentence. The odds of his having returned to his former profession were about fifty-fifty, from where she sat, but Mozzie was here, not scheming over rolls of blueprints, so that might weight things in favor of a new leaf.

"He's not dead," said June.

Sara blinked. "I'm relieved to hear it. Was there a chance he might be?" 

"Only insofar as he faked his own death a year ago, fooling even me, and fled the country," said Mozzie. "How did you not know that?"

"I—" Sara bit back a retort, hurt no one had bothered to inform her of Neal's passing. She would have sent flowers. She might even have come back for the funeral, if she'd been able to get away. "No one told me."

As she said it, she vaguely recollected some missed phone calls from Peter about a year ago. She'd been too busy with work to call back, and they'd never connected. It chilled her to think that, when there were so few people in the world she cared about and who cared about her, she hadn't even learned that one of them had died. She folded her arms, wrapping her jacket around her.

June was watching and immediately rang for coffee and cookies. "Or would you prefer tea, now you've relocated to England?"

"Coffee would be lovely, thank you." Sara waited until the maid left, and then glanced between June and Mozzie. "So Neal's back from the dead. What happened? Where is he now?"

"Technically, he's Victor Moreau," said Mozzie. "Or, at least, that's what he likes to tell people. And he's—"

"I think it might be best if he brought Sara up-to-date himself." June's eyebrow arched delicately. 

That meant he'd met someone new. "Is he here? I saw the lights on upstairs."

"I sometimes avail myself of the guest room," explained Mozzie. "Neal is… not here. I mean, he's here in the city, but he's not… here."

Living with someone, then. Sara ignored a small pang. They'd had fun together, and he'd been an enthusiastic and inventive bed partner, but sky-high public proposals aside, she'd never seen it as serious, and when he stopped writing, she'd taken it as a sign and moved on. She gave June and Mozzie a bright smile. "So who's the new girl? I knew it wouldn't take him long to meet someone."

"Actually, the next one was a murdering sociopath who shot him in the arm and tried to poison me to death," said Mozzie.

"Moz," said June. "I really think it's up to Neal to enlighten—"

"No, please," said Sara. "I want to hear this. Tell me about her." At least she hadn't been replaced by a paragon. 

"She staged her own death," said June, somberly.

"Oh." Sara raised her eyebrows, doing the math. "So she and Neal both— Did they run off together?" Maybe he'd decided gunshot wounds were the new foreplay.

"Staged, not faked," said Mozzie. "She's indisputably dead, and I, for one, do not mourn her passing."

"Okaaay. So where is Neal?" The more she had to ask, the more she was convinced they were holding back a bombshell.

Mozzie opened his mouth, glanced at June and abruptly clammed up. "So, London. Did you know it's estimated the UK has one CCTV camera for every fourteen people? They might as well have you all in tracking anklets."

The maid brought in the coffee tray and poured the drinks. June offered Sara a cookie. "Are you enjoying Europe? It's so wonderful there, this time of year. So much fascinating architecture."

"So many wealthy tourists," said Mozzie.

Sara spread her hands. "Unfortunately, work has been keeping me busy. I haven't had an opportunity to sightsee yet. But I like London very much."

"And your promotion is everything you hoped," said June, half pronouncement and half question.

"We're already exceeding our projections. It's a growth industry, very competitive, so of course I find the work invigorating—" She caught herself and grinned wryly. "—and all-consuming." The maid left, and Sara knew June had been trying to steer the conversation away from Caffrey, but her curiosity was roused and she couldn't let it rest. "Tell me about Neal, please? I'm fine, and I would like to know."

June pursed her lips and gestured to Mozzie, as if giving him permission to speak.

But apparently he'd had time to think better of revealing the truth. "Neal's staying at Casa Suit, and that's all I'll say." 

He picked up his coffee cup with an air of finality.

"With Peter and Elizabeth?" Sara frowned. Why the big mystery, then? It was odd that Neal had chosen not to resume residence in June's luxurious penthouse, but he and Peter had always been friends. In fact, Neal's reverence for the Burkes had made Sara feel quite overshadowed on more than one occasion. 

June gave an apologetic shrug, and echoed blandly, "With Peter and Elizabeth."

A thoroughly implausible scenario occurred to Sara, and she almost dismissed it out of hand, but… it would explain the available facts. And Neal had once let slip he had a history with men as well as women. She licked her lips. "With Peter _and_ Elizabeth?"

"Yes, yes, with both of them," said Mozzie, impatiently. "In a ménage à Suit avec un enfant."

"I don't know if you're aware, Peter and Elizabeth have a young son," said June. "He must be, oh, eleven or twelve months old by now."

"I see." Sara let out a wry laugh. Not one paragon but two, then, complete with baby. Well, Neal had always idealized domestic life—now he had a surfeit of it, all of them crammed into the Burkes' modest townhouse. Against the odds, she found she was happy for him and not the least bit envious.

Mozzie and June were watching her, awaiting her reaction.

She shook her head with a smile. "Trust Neal to steal himself a ready-made family. He never did do anything halfway." 

"So can we take it from that you're not devastated?" said Mozzie. "Excellent. Pinochle?" He picked up the card deck and shuffled, not showily like Neal would have done, but with obvious expertise.

June held up her hand before he could deal. "You'll have to excuse me, I'm afraid. It's time I retired for the evening. Sara, my dear, so good to see you. Do drop by again. Mozzie, please turn out the lights when you're done."

Mozzie gave an odd little bow, and June gathered her shawl about her shoulders and left the room. She moved with more care than she might have done a year or two ago, but her bearing was as regal as ever, so it was a surprise when Mozzie sighed and lowered his voice. 

"She's getting on. You'd think with the thousands of scientific advances that are being made every day, someone would have perfected a cure for the side-effects of ageing."

His crustiness was clearly a cover for genuine concern, and Sara liked him for it. She took June's vacated seat across from him. "If we're playing pinochle, you're going to have to teach me the rules."

 

*

 

An hour later, Sara had lost every trick—even when they switched to two-person bridge—and Mozzie had brought out a decanter of brandy equal to the best Sara had ever tasted. She was comfortable and slightly buzzed, and she threw down her cards with a groan of defeat and moved to the loveseat. "No more! You're either cheating or a cardshark or both."

"I would never cheat for such low stakes," said Mozzie, offended. They'd been playing for nickels. But he gathered the discards into the deck and followed her.

She slipped off her shoes and dug her toes into the plush carpet. "June has such a lovely home. I wonder who she's insured with."

Mozzie snorted. "You know, from anyone else that would sound like a threat of arson. From you, it's just proof you've forgotten how to stop working. Tell me, what was the last thing you did for fun?"

"I took some clients to _La Traviata_ at the Royal Opera House last week," said Sara. "It was a virtuoso performance."

Mozzie topped up her glass, then his own. "For fun _without_ clients. Pure self-indulgence. No shareholders, stakeholders or cigarette holders. Well, maybe the latter."

Other than the occasional bubble bath, Sara couldn't think of anything, but she didn't want to admit it, so she smiled. "I got taken to the cleaners at pinochle."

"Well, obviously it's not your game," said Mozzie, with a look that made it clear he knew an evasion when he heard one, but he'd allow it this time. 

Sara raised her chin. "And what would you say is my game?"

She expected him to say something predictable like Monopoly, or a thinly veiled insult like Go Fish, but he surprised her. "For someone with your style, ruthlessness and iron-cold nerve? I'd have to say mahjong."

"I…" Sara met his gaze, his blue eyes framed by his geeky glasses. He was a lot more attractive when he wasn't standing next to Neal. Not pin-up material, by any stretch, but intelligent and nice. And now he'd dropped the bizarro act, he suddenly seemed… possible. She cleared her throat. "I've never played. Mahjong, I mean."

He pushed his glasses onto the top of his head. "I suppose I could teach you. If you want?"

And then she leaned in, unthinking, drawn forward by gravity and curiosity and a need to not be alone, and he leaned in, and out of nowhere, still holding their brandy glasses, they were kissing.

 

*

 

"Do you want to come upstairs?" His hand was on her breast, under her blouse, but he still managed to sound offhand. 

Sara tried to think. "I'm not having sex with you in Neal's bed."

"His ex-bed," said Mozzie. "He hasn't slept there in over a year. He's been dead since then."

"Come back to my hotel," said Sara. If they stayed here, they were going to break the loveseat, which was probably extremely valuable. Also, June would find out.

Mozzie huffed. His lips were swollen. Sara couldn't help imagining them moving against her inner thigh. "That depends. Do you still sleep with a 9mm under your mattress?"

She grinned and shoved her feet into her shoes. "Let's go."

 

*

 

For reasons he refused to explain, Mozzie was driving a yellow cab. 

"Tell me you didn't steal a taxi," said Sara, looking doubtfully at the dash. The ID card bore Mozzie's face but the name was Hal Hoover, and much as she'd secretly missed dancing across the legal line, getting arrested for grand theft auto would put a major crimp in their evening.

"This is legitimately my medallion, paid in full," said Mozzie. His hand hovered over the meter, but she slapped it away. 

"Drive," she said.

 

*

 

They parked in the hotel parking lot, and Mozzie took the keys from the ignition. "Oh," he said. "Security cameras. We'll have to go in the service entrance and take the stairs. What floor are you on?"

Sara put her foot down. "We're not taking the service entrance. We're going in the elevator like normal people. Sterling Bosch is not paying eight hundred a night for me to climb nine flights of stairs."

"Are you sure you even want to do this?" Mozzie looked across the car, his face in shadow. 

For a moment, she thought he looked vulnerable. She couldn't remember the last time she'd slept with someone who let themselves be open the way he was. Who looked at her as if she were a complicated person. Neal had been charmingly self-absorbed to the point where spending time with him had felt like a vacation from her own life. But Mozzie saw her. He recognized her strength, her ruthlessness. And she had nothing to lose.

"Yes," she said, firmly. "But we're taking the elevator. Both of us."

Mozzie sighed, and they got out of the cab. "Has anyone ever told you you're very controlling?"

That surprised a laugh out of her, almost a giggle. She felt powerful and light-headed, pleased that he wanted her enough to back down. As they started across the parking lot to the hotel lobby, she caught his arm and tugged him back so she could kiss him right there, in full view of probably half a dozen cameras, but the reality of his lips on hers sobered her right up, quickened her blood. He cupped the nape of her neck, stroked his thumb softly along her hairline, and she began to ache with arousal, deliciously warm with their bodies pressed together and his other hand low on her back.

Bright light washed over them, and a Rolls honked its horn, impatient for them to clear its path.

"Come on," said Mozzie, taking her hand.

 

*

 

They had the elevator to themselves, floors three through ten. Mozzie stood with his back to the security camera in the corner. "I have hard lines."

"So do I," said Sara.

"Such as?"

Usually she had no trouble laying down her ground rules, but he'd already accused her of being an unspontaneous workaholic once this evening. She shrugged. "Just keep it simple. I'll let you know if you hit any of them."

"You're not even going to offer a hint?" Mozzie peered at her through his glasses. "Are you feeling all right?"

She tossed her hair and conceded. "Condoms; no handcuffs that require a key; no toys or anal until at least the third date; and if a guy doesn't go down on me, no second date." She usually kept that last one to herself, considering it a test of character, but Mozzie was the least likely person in the world to indulge her just to score points, and anyway, she was going back to London in thirty-six hours; this couldn't be more than a two-night stand. And she did feel more comfortable having listed her limits. "What are yours?"

"Safe sex," he said. "No significant scratching or biting; I don't want any more identifying scars than I already have. No references to ex-boyfriends."

"Deal." 

"Deal."

The elevator chimed and the doors slid open.

 

*

 

It wasn't the best sex she'd had, but it was far from the worst, especially given it was their first time. Mozzie was obliging and took direction, and his lips really did feel incredible kissing up her thigh, tantalizing her with promises and then delivering in spades. It took a while to get used to the body hair—all the men she'd slept with recently were dedicated waxers—but she didn't mind it. He smelled good. And while they didn't break any records for innovation, that was fine; Sara preferred to save the gymnastics until she'd had a chance to assess her partner's skill and etiquette anyway, and Mozzie was averaging a solid A– on both.

Most importantly, he gave no indication he thought she owed him anything. When she'd come twice, he sat back on his heels, wiped his mouth on his arm and asked, "What next?" as if she could call it quits then and there, no hard feelings.

She raised her eyebrows and sent him a playful, challenging look. "Fuck me?"

"Great minds." He reached for the condoms and slid into her a moment later. She had her usual pang of existential isolation, but it was fleeting; she was physically buzzed and unexpectedly happy, and Mozzie drove into her steadily, over and over, nudging her toward bonus orgasm number three. She reached up to meet his mouth, and he kissed her back as if he knew her and appreciated her. As if he cared.

 

*

 

She ordered coffee and toast from room service, indulging in the luxury of late-night carbs and caffeine on the company dime, and they sat in bed, cushioned by an extravagant number of pillows, snacking and arguing about cultural differences between New York and the United Kingdom until Sara's eyelids were heavy. 

"Do you want me to leave?" asked Mozzie, oddly gentle, and she frowned, struggling to remember the last thing they'd been saying. 

"No, stay," she mumbled. Had it been overcoats or the tube? Coffee? The memory slid sideways, and she followed it into warm, beckoning sleep, only vaguely aware of him kissing her shoulder, and a soft, "Okay, sleep tight."

 

*

 

A toilet flushed in the bathroom, and a few moments later someone climbed into bed beside her. Sara took a slow, silent breath and fought past jetlag to remember where and when she was (a hotel in New York, Saturday morning) and who she was with, so she could open her eyes with poise.

It hit her like a truck: Mozzie. Neal's best friend. The quirky sidekick with the paranoia complex and the unique, bohemian-at-best dress sense. Short, acerbic, blunt Mozzie. _She'd had sex with Mozzie!_ Sara bit her lip, her pulse racing the way it always did when she'd just made a catastrophically bad life choice. 

"I can see the vast miasma of regret emanating from you from here," said Mozzie. "I'll leave."

Her eyes flew open guiltily, and the world turned right-side up. The man next to her wasn't the cartoon character of her imagination. Sure, he wasn't an Adonis, and he was admittedly a bit weird, but he was perfectly personable and smart too. Familiar, kind, easy to be with. She caught his wrist as he moved to get up. "Wait, don't go. No regrets."

He put on his glasses and looked at her, his expression somber. "I said from the start this was a terrible idea."

"I don't remember last night being so terrible. I'd say it was… fun." Her pulse was still thrumming, but it was different now. She flushed with awareness. "Enjoyable. Worth repeating, even."

"Sara—"

"Stay," she said, brushing her knuckles down his outer thigh. "I'll buy you brunch. You can teach me mahjong."

"Apparently there are perks to being the nearest warm body," he said, sardonically, but he cupped her head and kissed her, tentatively at first, and when she responded, more deeply, moving to lie over her. She bent one knee and rocked against him, keeping her eyes open, seeing him for who he was, not the caricature in her head.

 

*

 

They had brunch in the hotel restaurant, sitting in the window and looking out over a beautiful summer's day. "So," said Sara, "are you and Neal still doing that thing you do?"

Mozzie poured syrup onto a waffle. "Lamentably, no. He's forsaken crime for the high-stakes world of event management."

She waited for the punchline. None came. "You're serious?"

"As Jean-Paul Sartre." Mozzie shrugged. "Love is the downfall of all great men. And nations—look at Troy."

"I'm pretty sure geopolitics must have factored at least partially into the decision to launch a thousand ships," said Sara. She studied him for a moment. He did have potential. "You know, you should come and work for me in London."

He fumbled his cup, spilling coffee into the saucer.

"What, I'm serious," said Sara. "None of my retrievals team has any initiative." He stared at her like an indignant owl. She appealed to his wallet. "We pay on commission. You'd make good money."

"Remember what I once told you about getting involved with con men?"

"I do," she said. "If I recall, you said you live a life of danger. So what dark and dangerous deeds have you done recently, Mozzie? Pulled any six-figure heists? Forged any masterpieces? Conned any billionaires?"

His stare turned into a glare.

She grinned. "Face it, your front man's retired. So come to London. Insurance retrieval is all the fun of a con without any risk of ending up in Newgate." She leaned forward and flirted with her eyelashes and cleavage. "If Scotland Yard does catch you sneaking around some eighteenth-century manor house in the dead of night, I promise to bail you out."

Her phone rang, and she hastily wiped brioche crumbs from her fingers and answered without checking the display. "Sara Ellis, Sterling Bosch."

"You sound like an answering service." The teasing drawl made her smile.

"Hello, Neal," she said, matching his tone. "Or should I say Victor? I hear reports of your death were exaggerated."

He laughed. "News travels fast. June said you were in town."

"For another twenty-four hours, give or take." She checked her watch. Twenty-two.

"Got time for a coffee this afternoon?" He sounded relaxed, pleased with himself. "We can catch up."

"Oh, I—" Sara glanced at Mozzie. He was eating his waffle and staring out at the city, politely vacating his attention so as not to eavesdrop. Whatever was going on between them, surely he wouldn't begrudge her an hour or two to catch up with Neal—and if he did, well, that was reason enough to do it anyway. Nothing good ever came of letting a man control one's social life—she'd learned that dating Bryan McKenzie. "Why not," she told Neal. "Coffee sounds great."

They arranged a rendezvous for two-thirty, and she hung up, still smiling, and turned her focus back to Mozzie. Offering him a job had been a whim, but the more she thought about the idea, the more it appealed to her. Put a decent suit on him, and he'd be unstoppable in the trade, she had no doubt about that. And if he came to London, they could pursue this… whatever it was. She gave a little wave to get his attention. "So, Mozzie, about that job offer. What do you say?"

"I can't." He sat back in his chair. "My friends are here, not to mention a decade of accumulated business contacts. I have obligations."

"People relocate for business all the time," argued Sara. 

He shook his head. "June needs me."

That hit home. She concentrated on her fruit and yogurt cup for a moment. No one needed her. She didn't have a June or any family or even any real friends. Her ex-fiancé was in prison for murder and corporate espionage, and she strongly suspected he'd thought of her more as a career accessory than a woman anyway; and her other ex was shacked up with his ideal couple. She was alone.

Mozzie was still spouting reasons to refuse. "Besides, can you imagine me working for a corporate overlord?" He scoffed unconvincingly. "And then there's the fact that London is the most surveilled city in the world. No one in their right mind would choose to—"

Sara snapped. "Has anyone ever told you your obsession with security borders on the pathological?"

"Oh, I think the Snowden revelations more than vindicate my concern with government surveillance overreach," he shot back. "PRISM alone is horrifying in its scope, and then there's 702 Surveillance, MYSTIC, Magic Lantern, Stellar Wind—"

She looked at him blankly.

"Have you been living under a rock?"

"I've been working!"

"Well, crack a newspaper once in a while," he said. She opened her mouth to say she read the financial pages, but he steamrollered on. "The NSA has been conspiring with so-called intelligence agencies around the globe, including your GCHQ, to monitor and store all electronic communications. Everyone's. Your emails, your texts, even your phone calls. They have a gargantuan data center in Utah."

Sara rolled her eyes. "That's just another one of your conspiracies."

He reached across the table and grabbed her phone before she could stop him, brought up a webpage and handed it to her.

She scanned it with growing consternation. "Oh my God! Is this real?"

"That's what I'm saying!" He confiscated her phone again and started tapping and swiping.

She watched him for a moment, then picked up her spoon and ate a mouthful of fruit. "What are you doing?" 

"Installing some basic security onto your phone," he said. "How you can dream of conducting business on a defenseless piece of hardware like this is beyond me. You might as well post your corporate secrets to Facebook."

Sara sighed with a mix of exasperation and fondness, but she just said, "Put your phone number in there while you're at it."

"Fine." A minute later, he looked up and met her eye, and his expression and tone turned serious. "You know it would never work out. We're both just clinging to the past."

She swallowed and looked down at the berries on her spoon. "Is that all this was? A jaunt down a funhouse mirror of memory lane?"

"What else?" He slid her phone across the table and stood up. "It truly was a pleasure. Take care, Vicki Anderson." He bent and kissed her cheek.

She half-moved to grab his sleeve, to at least get a proper good-bye kiss out of him if he was going to be so melodramatic, but she was too late. He was gone. That was that.

Well, that was how one-night stands ended. Not usually with such overt gallantry, but cleanly. She was a big girl; she wouldn't let it get to her. 

It was only Mozzie, for crying out loud.

She picked up her coffee cup and stopped, horrified to find her hand was trembling. She put the cup down carefully. The next thing she knew, a tear dripped onto her white linen napkin.

 

*

 

She pulled herself together and spent the next few hours working in her hotel room and then got a cab to Central Park. As they passed through Hell's Kitchen, she saw a street vendor with racks of garish shirts. She could buy one as a gesture. But Mozzie had made his position plain: she wasn't his type. He'd only spent time with her at all in a futile attempt to recapture the old days when she'd been part of his and Neal's crew. Besides, she was running late. 

Neal was waiting at a table outside the Boathouse Cafe, his legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles. What with the casual clothes, the neat beard and the sunglasses—not to mention the fact he was bareheaded—she hardly recognized him. He stood to welcome her and kissed her cheek politely, and when they sat down again, folded his glasses and hooked them in the neck of his t-shirt so she could see his eyes.

He looked profoundly content. So much so that she realized she'd probably never seen him truly happy before.

"You seem well," she said, sitting across from him. "Shorts and sandals—that's a new look for you."

He grinned. "And you haven't changed a day."

"I like to think I've acquired an air of authority with my managerial role."

"You always had that."

She accepted the compliment with a smile and looked around. The area was full of families, small children pointing at squirrels, and couples walking dogs. Once, Neal would have stood out, effortlessly drawing attention as if trailed by his own personal spotlight. Now he belonged.

"Congratulations, I hear you're a family man now. How's that working out for you?"

"I do all right. I have about six million baby photos, if you're interested." He held up his phone, then caught her eye and grimaced. "I'm sorry I didn't get to tell you myself."

"Hey, you don't owe me a thing." He'd faked his own death and come back to life again without so much as a text message; a relationship here or there barely registered on that scale.

"I saw you in Oxford Street once," he said. "I was in London on business. Fourteenth of January. I think you were with clients—a silver fox in a greatcoat and a woman with a face like a prune."

The Margraves. Sara remembered that morning: the curbs heaped with dirty snow, everyone huddled into their coats and scarves, Florence Margrave complaining about currency exchange rates. "And let me guess, _you_ were casing the British Museum."

"I wanted to come over and say hi, but…" His gaze was as earnest and puppyish as ever. "I was just trying to keep everyone safe."

"Right," she said. "Imagine if you'd said hello—the entire city of London might have crumbled into the Thames, just like that."

"Sara."

"Neal, it's fine. It's history. You've moved on, I've moved on." She gave him a smile. "It's fine."

"You've moved on?" His eyebrows went up. Apparently he still had his keen nose for gossip.

"I…" She sighed, unsure how much to say or even what she was feeling. Luckily a waitress interrupted to take their coffee order, and she had a moment to compose herself. She might as well tell him; maybe he'd have a brilliant insight that would resolve the matter, one way or the other. When the waitress left, Sara sighed again. "I think I like Mozzie."

Neal's forehead wrinkled in theatrical surprise. "I don't know what to say to that."

She rolled her eyes. "Well, for starters, are you going to try to exercise an ex-boyfriend or best-friend veto?"

"I don't know what to say to that either." He clasped his hands loosely on the table and leaned in. "I mean, of course I want you to be happy, but… I'm just having a hard time seeing it. Sorry."

"Well, you're not the only one." Sara knew it was hard to comprehend; the idea of Mozzie was so at odds with the reality, and for all she knew, the same was true of her.

Neal was chewing his lip. "You know he's not legit."

"Oh, but I do have some experience with dating criminals." Sara smiled sweetly.

"To be fair, I was working for the FBI at the time."

"And lusting after the special agent in charge _and_ his wife, apparently," she said. "Not to mention running cons on the side, whenever said agent's back was turned."

He managed to look slightly abashed, then grew serious. "I'm just saying, Moz is even less likely to settle down than I was."

"I don't want to settle down." She pushed her hair back. "That was your fantasy, Neal, not mine. I've come to the conclusion I don't domesticate well."

A flicker of something crossed his face, defensiveness or relief, to be instantly replaced with a teasing grin. "Probably just as well. It would interfere with your plans for world domination."

She laughed. "That's right. First Britain, then the rest of Europe. All shall bow before me and despair."

Their coffee came, and they bantered back and forth, and she was more aware than ever before that it was a game they played. None of it was real, and it never had been. They'd hooked up when they'd both been in need of comfort and connection, they'd become friends, they were well-matched in the arenas of sex and conversational sparring, but Neal didn't share her dreams, and she couldn't fathom his.

"We had fun, didn't we?" she asked, suddenly wondering if even her memory of that was misleading.

But Neal's answering smile was genuine. "We did. We were good for a while there. I just… I always wanted something else, however much I tried not to. I'm sorry."

Sara glanced down the path and saw Peter and Elizabeth coming their way, pushing a stroller containing a small curly-headed child and an old teddy bear. Peter and El were taking their time, chatting and smiling together, bending to talk to the boy. Every inch the model family. 

"And now you have it," Sara told Neal, gesturing toward them. Not a pang. Maybe her heart was irreparably damaged. Maybe she only wanted Mozzie because he made her feel _something_ , even if it was fifty percent exasperation.

 

*

 

Mozzie called when she was walking back to the hotel. "What are you doing this evening?"

"Well, hello to you too," said Sara, using sarcasm to disguise how glad she was to hear from him.

"Well?" He sounded irritable and not at all romantic, and she wished he were here scowling at her in person.

God, she was like a teenager with a crush. Ridiculous. She erased any hint of weakness from her voice and answered, "This evening? I'm having dinner with Winston and Adrienne Bosch. It was supposed to be last night, but they rescheduled."

"You're working," he translated. "Good, okay, I just wanted to make sure you weren't in need of diversion. Enjoy the rest of your trip." 

"Wait!" Sara stopped in the middle of the sidewalk. "Did, uh, did you talk to Neal? Is that why you're calling?"

"Why, what happened with Neal?" Suspicion was thick in his voice. "On second thought, don't answer that. When ignorance is bliss, 'tis folly to be wise." 

"Nothing, never mind," said Sara. She hadn't broken the letter of their no-one-can-know agreement, but the spirit was severely cracked. On the other hand, Mozzie had somehow overcome his doom-mongering long enough to call her, all on his own. She offered a compromise. "You could come with me to the Bosches'."

"As scintillating as that sounds, I'm otherwise engaged. I'm going to a dance."

"So?"

Mozzie huffed. "So… it transpires that I have a spare ticket. June's opted for a quiet night at home."

Sara thought fast. She couldn't back out of the dinner party at this late notice, but she wasn't leaving New York without seeing Mozzie again. No one would care if she missed dessert. "What time is this dance? I can get away by nine."

"The band packs up at eleven sharp in deference to the Noise Code."

"That's still an hour and a half, allowing for travel." She pressed her hand to her chest, holding down a foolish flutter of anticipation. "Pick me up at nine. I'll text you the address."

 

*

 

It was harder to get away than she'd thought, and it was nine-thirty by the time she descended the steps of the Boschs' Park Avenue mansion, scanning the street in vain for Mozzie's yellow taxi. She checked her phone, but he hadn't called or texted to say he'd been delayed. Maybe the doom-mongering had won out.

A gleaming black Jag pulled out of its spot down the block and purred along the Avenue to double park in front of her. She bent to see Mozzie behind the wheel, wearing a pinstripe suit with lapels so wide they looked like oddly placed wings.

Sara slid into the passenger seat, running her fingertips appreciatively over the leather upholstery. "Well, you're full of surprises."

"And you're late," said Mozzie. "The chariot transforms into a pumpkin at midnight, and I turn back into a rat." But he was smiling too. He waited while she fastened her seatbelt, then they merged into the flow of traffic. "So, how was it, supping with America's corporate elite?"

"The dinner was excellent," said Sara, deliberately ambiguous.

Mozzie shot her a sideways glance. "And the company?"

"Pompous and predictable," she admitted. "Winston's nephew, Anthony, spent half an hour expounding on the virtues of a low-sodium diet, and how it should qualify him for lower health insurance premiums."

"My condolences," said Mozzie. "How was the art collection?"

"I don't know, I wasn't casing the joint. I was arguing about exclusion clauses and watching the clock." She studied his profile. He wasn't nearly as distinguished as Anthony Bosch, or as wealthy, but on the other hand, he didn't believe that wearing a dress invalidated any opinions she might hold, and she trusted him. "I'm glad you called."

"I thought you might need someone to talk to." He glanced across without meeting her eye. "And it's better to make memories than regrets. Of course, one usually begets the other."

She shook her head. "Your bounteous outpouring of optimism never fails to impress. So where are we going?"

"Ah, as to that." He turned onto the 59th Street Bridge, and they drove toward Queens. "A very exclusive private charitable establishment known as the HMS Dancehall."

"I've never heard of it." She raised her eyebrows. "HMS. Are we joining the British Royal Navy? I should have taken the time to learn some shanties."

"Officially, it's the Hale Memorial Society."

Something in his tone caught her attention, making her drop the jokes. "And who or what was Hale?"

"He was a friend." The car engine thrummed, filling the silence. Mozzie cleared his throat. "I was… partially responsible for his untimely demise."

"I'm sorry."

He shot her a quick smile, his face aged by the passing streetlights and shifting shadows. "As George Bernard Shaw once said, if you can't get rid of the skeleton in your closet, you'd best teach it to dance."

 

*

 

The HMS Dancehall had a modest, walk-up entrance, and Sara immediately assumed she'd be overdressed in her Armani evening gown, but when they entered the large hall with its art deco lines, draped velvet curtains and constellation of starry lights on the ceiling, the floor crowded with couples, she relaxed.

For starters, barring a few teenagers, she and Mozzie seemed to be the youngest people there by twenty or thirty years. And there apparently wasn't a dress code at all: some of the men wore jeans, others flashy tuxedos, and the women were adorned in everything from department store dresses to this season's Parisian haut couture. There was a cheerfully dignified air to the occasion, and Mozzie fit right in, exchanging handshakes with a few people as they passed and eliciting more than one wave from the dancefloor.

On the semi-circular stage, a woman in a midnight blue sequined dress with a deep smoky voice sang "Ain't Misbehavin'," framed by a spotlight and backed up by a sextet.

"First things first," said Mozzie, and they went to the refreshments table, where he poured two glasses of fruit punch and topped them up from a hip flask in his breast pocket. In fact, there were a number of flasks in evidence, supplementing other people's drinks. 

"No liquor license?" Sara hazarded.

Mozzie sighed. "If we stock liquor, someone either ends up binge-drinking their way through the entire reserve or disposing of it at a personal profit. Which reminds me, whatever you do, steer clear of Angry Jerry."

"Who?" Sara looked around, but Mozzie was turning to greet an elderly couple, their faces flushed with dancing and wreathed in smiles. The woman was wearing a gorgeous antique-style diamond necklace, and the man was in a plain dark suit. Since he was a beanpole and well over six feet tall, it made him look like a smiling undertaker.

"My favorite Maleckis! Delighted to see you as always." Mozzie gave the woman an outrageous wink. "Iris, you're looking more ravishing than ever."

"Speaking of ravishing, won't you introduce us?" said the man, smiling at Sara.

"Forgive me. This is Sara Ellis." Mozzie put his hand on Sara's back, drawing her into the circle. "Sara, Eddie and Iris Malecki. Don't believe a word they tell you, they're compulsive liars, and none of it's true."

"Slander and calumny," said Iris, patting her white curls. "But I do like to exaggerate from time to time. It makes life more interesting that way."

"And I have to at least embellish, to keep up with you," said Eddie, with a wink. 

The song swirled to a close, the dancers applauded, and the band started an upbeat version of "My Funny Valentine."

Sara grinned at Mozzie, who narrowed his eyes back at her. "If you ask me to dance to this, I will never forgive you."

"That's my cue to step in. May I have the honor?" asked Eddie, crooking his arm in invitation.

"Oh." He seemed nice, but Sara had expected—hoped—to spend the evening dancing with Mozzie, who was currently distracted by something Iris was saying and thus no help at all. She shrugged inwardly. She could spare one dance, and Eddie seemed nice. "I'd like that."

She drank her punch in three swallows, put the glass on the table and took his arm. 

"Don't buy any real estate from him," Mozzie called after her. "He's a fraudster and a cheat."

Eddie just laughed and found them a space on the crowded floor. He held her at a comfortable distance, and they began to dance. "This gives me a chance to get a jump on the grapevine," he said. "Mozzie hasn't brought a date here in years, not counting the Countess of June."

Sara followed his lead easily, barely needing to pay attention. It was like flying. She smiled up at him, taking the chance to get some background on Mozzie beyond what she already knew. "How long has he been a member?"

"Oh, since the old days, back when this was still Merv's Saturday Night Music Club, long before my time."

"Whatever happened to Merv?" asked Sara.

Eddie's long face grew serious. "Robbery gone tragically wrong." 

"I'm sorry."

"Yeah, he's inside for the next twenty," said Eddie. "The big doodyhead should never have been carrying in the first place."

"Okay, I think I'm starting to get a feel for this place." 

Eddie grinned. "You'll be fine. It's a good crowd, and everyone loves Mozzie—though to be on the safe side, you should probably keep your distance from Angry Jerry."

"Good idea. Maybe you could point him out to me?" Sara looked around, partly to see if anyone's demeanor fit the name, but mostly to check Mozzie was still in view. He was dancing with Iris, deep in conversation, but she caught his eye and he smiled. She grinned back, despite having been delivered into a den of thieves.

They might be crooks, but she liked them. She liked this whole place. Everyone seemed to know everyone—and be exchanging good-natured insults in passing. It was a modern-day speakeasy minus the booze, classy and fun with a transgressive undercurrent. It reminded her of June. Of Mozzie.

The song changed again, this time to "The Lady Is a Tramp," and Sara burst out laughing and mentally dared Mozzie to just try anything. But another couple cut in, and she found herself paired up with Dan Figari, who was amiable and competent but didn't have half Eddie's light-footed charm. 

The songs changed, and the evening wore on, and whenever she started to go and find Mozzie, someone else would intercept her and ask her to dance. She met a string of oddball characters and eventually gave in and relaxed, enjoying the music, the company and the rhythm of the dance, and slowly gleaning tidbits of information about Mozzie and the history of the HMS Dancehall in amongst gossip about everyone else. They were all shameless busybodies. Two more people warned her away from Angry Jerry, but no one was able to identify him.

Mozzie finally appeared at her side as the band started "I Get a Kick Out of You," and Sara realized it was ten minutes to eleven. 

"There you are," she said, smiling a farewell to Lloyd Someone-or-other. She put her hand on Mozzie's shoulder. 

"Here I am." He pulled her close up against him, and they moved together. He was a good dancer, almost as good as Eddie, and she appreciated that even as she became breathlessly aware of him. He was still Mozzie, with his cherubic face and slightly comical clothes, shorter than her because of her heels, but he was in his element here, and she'd been waiting for him. 

"Now I know where you get all your street chatter," she teased, to hide her reaction.

He smiled. "You've found me out. Did you have a good time?"

"I did," said Sara. "I am. I like your friends. Your fraternity of thieves."

"Yes, I heard you've been charming everyone's socks off." He spun her.

"I have no doubt they'll acquire some expensive replacements, through one shady scheme or another," she said, when she was back in his arms, his fingers spread across her lower back. She added, randomly, "Did you know Eddie and Iris have never lived together? They've been married thirty-eight years, living on opposite sides of the East River." 

"Everyone knows that." Mozzie sounded distracted. "Iris read Kahil Gibran when they got engaged—Let there be spaces in your togetherness—and she took it literally." 

"I think it's romantic," said Sara. The idea of separate apartments was infinitely more appealing than three adults and a baby sardined into a two-bedroom townhouse. She closed her eyes, feeling Mozzie's body moving with hers as if they were part of the music. Pleased that he'd brought her here and let her see his secret world, where he was liked and respected. Where he wasn't just Neal's sidekick or June's attendant. 

He cleared his throat. "Listen, Sara, I don't know what happened at your coffee date this afternoon, but we can't just—"

"Nothing happened," she interrupted, before he could spoil the moment with his pessimistic pronouncements. Before she blurted something stupid. "You know, June's lucky to have you."

"I can't tell if you're being sarcastic."

She grinned. "Tell me more about Hale. What was he like?"

The song ended, and she and Mozzie joined in the applause. 

"We have time for one more number," announced the singer. "This is it, folks, the last dance of the evening. Grab your partners." The band struck up, and she started crooning, _The way you wear your hat…_

Mozzie rolled his eyes, exasperated. "Come with me."

He led her to a fire exit in the corner, behind one of the velvet curtains, and up a narrow staircase lit with old fluorescent lights and lined with layers of graffiti to another fire door, which opened onto the roof. A group of teenagers were out there, smoking and talking, and Mozzie went over, said a few low words and gave them something. As one, they ground out their cigarettes and trooped past Sara into the building.

"Did you just pay them to leave?" asked Sara, confused.

"Forget them." Mozzie strolled to the parapet and stood silhouetted against the night. He took the hip flask from his pocket.

Sara went to join him, snagged the flask and took a swig. She leaned on the parapet beside him, looking out at the low warehouses across the street, and beyond and between them, glimpses of the river and the Manhattan skyline. From below, she could still hear the band playing its last song. _The way you sing off key…_ "The job offer's still open," she said. "Change your mind. Come to London with me."

He took the flask back and drank from it. He looked tired. "What happened this afternoon?"

"What happened to the moratorium on ex-boyfriends?" countered Sara, stalling.

"I'm making an exception. And you're evading."

"Fine." She leaned against him slightly, even though he was stiff as a statue and refusing to look at her. "I told Neal—Relax, I didn't tell him anything had happened. Just that… I like you."

Saying it to his face made her nervous. She bit her lip, but he didn't seem moved by the confession, nor surprised or indignant that she'd told Neal. If anything, he was resigned. "And? Did it work?" When she didn't answer, he turned his head. "Did you get the reaction you were hoping for?"

"Mostly blank bewilderment," she said wryly. "You have to admit, we're not exactly the most obvious match."

But Mozzie was watching the skyline again, refusing to share the inherent irony of the two of them together. "He's in love with El and Peter."

"I know that." She re-claimed the flask—

"You can't make him jealous."

—and choked on a mouthful of brandy. "I'm not trying to—" She struggled for air and composure, her eyes watering. When she could talk again, she demanded, hoarsely, "Do you honestly believe I'd stoop that low?"

A lot of things suddenly made sense: Mozzie's abrupt departure from brunch, after she'd taken Neal's phone call; his calling later to see if she was "in need of diversion;" the fact he'd spent most of the last hour avoiding her.

"I believe jealousy blinds even the virtuous and debases the noble." Mozzie let out a silent sigh. "I won't be used for revenge against my own best friend. And anyway, I'm not cut out to be a rebound. I have some pride."

Sara wiped her eyes. "I'm not jealous of Neal! And who said you were a rebound?"

"You found out about Neal and the Suits yesterday. It's doesn't take a degree in advanced mathematics." Mozzie looked stubborn.

"Apparently it does," she said, tartly. "I hadn't heard a word from him in over a year, and trust me, I have not been pining."

Mozzie huffed. "So you're saying if you'd come back and he'd been available, you wouldn't have picked up where you left off."

"I don't know. Maybe. So sue me, he's charming." Her temper slipped. "It would have been a hell of a lot easier than this. At least I wouldn't have to knock myself out to convince him I was attracted to him."

"Because he already knows you are," snapped Mozzie.

She turned to face him head on, fueled with frustration. "You know, you're remarkably confident you know what I want, when you're actually very wrong." She shook her head. "Why are we even having this conversation?" 

She dropped the flask, grabbed him by his ridiculous lapels and kissed him, her wrath merging with the heat of his mouth on hers. Her blood surged. She felt electric from head to foot, as if sparks were arcing between them, and she shoved him against the parapet, following after, pressing against him until his arms came up to hold her, and he kissed her back with a passion she hadn't known he was capable of. He was just as infuriated as she was, she could feel it in the way he shuddered as she moved against him, the bite of his fingers on her hips. She pushed closer, wanting them both to get caught up in the moment. Wanting to screw away his resistance and objections here on the darkened roof of the HMS Dancehall, to prove her intentions were genuine.

"Trust me," she said into his mouth. "I like you."

He groaned and pulled back a few inches, his expression dark. Breathing hard. "You forget, I saw your face this morning when you woke up and remembered who was lying beside you."

She froze, rendered briefly speechless by a clutch of guilt, then gave an unconvincing laugh. "I admit, I had some doubts."

"I knew it!" said Mozzie with bitter triumph.

"But then I opened my eyes and saw you. The real you." She met his mouth gently this time, then leaned against him, abruptly exhausted by the fight. "Why are you so sure I'm not your type, Mozzie? Seriously."

"Because (a) you're a cog in the corporate machine that feeds the very corrupt global financial-political complex that's destined to destroy this planet," he said, but she was pretty sure his heart wasn't in it.

"And (b)?"

"Because I'm not _your_ type, and I'm not a masochist." He looked up at her balefully. "No one's type includes me and Neal. It's a physical and logical impossibility. We have a system that has stood us in excellent stead for nigh on a decade: I've cornered the market on quirky iconoclasts, and he gets… everyone else."

She poked him in the chest. "You're scared."

"I'm justifiably cautious." 

"I don't want Neal. If I'm jealous of anyone, it's Iris and Eddie." Sara smoothed Mozzie's crumpled lapels, appreciating him for who he was: thoughtful, loyal, utterly exasperating and utterly sweet. "I like you, Mozzie. You're a good person, and maybe you don't know how rare that is, but… And I do want you."

His mouth twisted as if he finally believed her, but then he touched her chin like a shorter Humphrey Bogart saying goodbye to Ingrid Bergman. "I want you too, Red, much as an unlikely moth craves a particularly lethal flame. But you're still my best friend's ex."

"Well, you should've thought of that last night." Impatience got the better of her, and she punched him on the arm. "Live a little."

He didn't seem to have a comeback for that, so she towed him toward the door. 

"I'm going back to my hotel now, and unless you strenuously object, you're coming with me," she said. When he freed his arm from her grip and stepped away, she added, "Hey, you're the one who called me controlling."

But he was only retrieving the abandoned hip flask, tucking it into his pocket. He came back to her. "And tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow I'll leave. But I'll be back in town for a few days in September, and maybe again in October, if I can swing it. That's more space in our togetherness than even you could ask for." She took his hand, and he reeled her in and kissed her, like a clinch from a romantic movie, while the stars spun overhead.

 

*

 

London was hot. Sara let herself into her Kensington apartment, dumped her bags in the bedroom, stripped and stepped straight into a cool shower. The water pressure was good, and the spray eased out the travel kinks and washed away the last physical traces of her trip. She was home. She'd only been gone four days, but it felt like a lifetime, and everything looked different.

Starting with her apartment. She toweled off and pulled on a robe, then wandered through the blank rooms filled with cream and chrome furniture, running her hand along the back of the leather couch, over the glass dining table. She missed Mozzie already, but he wasn't the only thing lacking here. 

Her life was a blank canvas waiting for an artist's brush. She'd been too busy working to decorate properly. Well, she would now.

In the next week, she bought colored throw-rugs, beautiful patterned cushions and some art prints for her walls. She promoted her brisk twenty-two-year-old PA and replaced her with an efficient but kindly older woman from Manchester, who reminded her a little of June. She took her second-in-command, Gwen, out to a pub and told her over their half-pints of beer, "I'm going to need you to take on some of the client management."

"Great," said Gwen. "I'd love to. But what about you?"

Sara smiled. "I need more flexibility in my schedule, so I can split my time between management and retrievals." If trying to recruit Mozzie had taught her anything, it was that she missed working in the field. 

She went home that evening with takeout and some case files and curled up on the couch on a red paisley cashmere throw, but the files sat untouched on the coffee table. Her apartment was more welcoming now, her work situation better suited to her. It helped, but she still missed Mozzie.

She could imagine him here right now, complaining about the heat and the air quality, or the CCTV cameras, listening to her talk about work, finally teaching her mahjong. Pushing her back against her new cushions and kissing her, touching her.

She groaned. September was months away. She grabbed her phone and texted him: _Call me sometime. I miss you._

He replied a few minutes later. _Hold that thought._ And then… nothing. For the next few days, she half-expected him to show up on her doorstep, but he didn't even call. A week passed. Then another. 

She could call him, of course, but she'd already pushed. She refused to spend the rest of her life trying to convince him that she liked him, and she couldn't force him to want her to the point where it bypassed his stupid reservations. She had her pride too, and after all these years, asserting her independence was so ingrained it was habitual.

The next Friday night, she defaulted on a client dinner, leaving Gwen to manage the Margraves. She Netflixed _The Thomas Crown Affair_ with Faye Dunaway and let herself wallow. When the final note of the soundtrack had faded, she gave in. 

Mozzie didn't answer his phone.

She called June and made chitchat for as long as she could before the question spilled out: "Is Mozzie there?"

"I'm afraid not," said June. "He's been very busy lately."

"Please tell him to call me," said Sara, and went to bed, where she lay awake, staring at the ceiling and remembering the rooftop of the HMS Dancehall and all his objections. Remembering the feel of his hands and mouth on her later that night at her hotel, the easy pleasure of their coupling. Going down on him the next morning, before he drove her to the airport. Their last kiss goodbye. She'd thought they'd agreed, that they wanted each other equally. Maybe she'd been wrong.

Maybe he thought she'd hang around and wait for him forever.

Maybe he was too much of a weasel to tell her it was over.

 

*

 

She answered the door at eight A.M. the next morning to find him standing on her doorstep with an overnight bag slung over his shoulder. He was wearing a blue Hawaiian shirt and a determined expression, and holding two takeout cups of coffee. She could have killed him.

"Why the hell didn't you tell me you were coming?" she said, hands on her hips.

"I was working." He gave her the coffee, took her by the waist and kissed her, and she kissed back, so surprised and furious and pleased to see him she almost dropped the cups. 

She pulled back. "Working at what?"

She didn't even know what he did for money. He could be a fulltime cabdriver who'd spent the last three weeks saving up plane fare, for all she knew. 

"I was founding a business empire. It takes a lot of paperwork." He handed her a card:

  
**Teddy Winters**  
**Managing Director**  
**ATER Holdings LLC**  
Importer of fine foods and wines

"You're looking at the preferred supplier of European delicacies to Bumpy," he said. At her confused frown, he elaborated, "Burke-Moreau Premiere Events. BMPE. Bumpy. They hate it when I call it that."

"So naturally you do." She tapped the corner of the card against his forehead. "Wait, does that mean you told Neal about us?"

"Neal, El, June." Mozzie looked nervous. "They were unanimously supportive, so I'm just hoping that didn't jinx anything. Are you going to invite me in or not?"

She took him inside, opting for the living room over the dining table because of the possibilities offered by the couch. But having spent three weeks in radio silence, he now seemed determined to talk.

He sat on the edge of the couch. "So, imports. The thing is, theoretically, according to my business plan, I'm required to spend one weekend a month scouring Europe for its finest wines, truffles, olives, caviar, chocolate…"

"…cheeses," said Sara, her pique rapidly fading. She sat beside him, crowding him shamelessly.

"Aye, there's the rub," said Mozzie, with an owl-like bob of his head. "As a victim of lactose intolerance, I'm going to need a reliable taster for the cheeses."

Excitement glittered behind her eyelids. Travel and adventure with Mozzie at her side. It would certainly never be dull. She tried to stay cool. "Well, it just so happens I know someone who might be interested."

"It does seem like a travesty for her to be based in London and not see more of the Continent," said Mozzie, putting his arm around her. "But the million-dollar question is: can she escape the intractable bonds of employment for a forty-eight-consecutive-hour stretch each month?"

"You'd be amazed." Sara laughed. "You know, I think setting up an international company is the most romantic thing anyone's ever done for me. I can't believe you found a way to make a long-distance relationship tax deductible."

"I can't believe I'm registered to pay taxes," said Mozzie, briefly maudlin, slumping back against the cushions. "It's the end of an era."

"And the start of a new one," said Sara. She glanced at the card again. "Why ATER Holdings?"

"Across The East River. I missed you too, Red." He took her hand, and she lay back against the arm of the couch and pulled him on top of her, running her hands down his back to pull him closer. Welcoming his kiss. If there'd been moments in the last three weeks when she'd thought of him as "only Mozzie" or a weird conspiracy crackpot, they made no difference now he was here, his true self, looking down at her with such warmth and appreciation. 

"You should have called," she said softly.

"I know." He looked pensive. "I wanted to tell you in person… to make sure you'd see me."

He was as stubborn in his insecurity as in everything else, but he'd come through anyway. He was here. Sara looked at him fondly; she wasn't used to being careful of others' feelings, but Mozzie was the exception to a lot of rules. "Trust me."

She kissed him and started working his shirt open, reveling in the tremors that passed through him as her fingers brushed his chest. "So," she said against his bare shoulder, "where are we going first—Spain, Greece, the South of France? Switzerland for the chocolate?"

"Well, in line with my business strategy—" He broke off to move down and nuzzle her collarbone, kiss into her cleavage. "—I've decided to let the beautiful yet ruthless control-freak set the itinerary."

She laughed, filled right through with pleasure and happiness. "Good call, Mr. Winters. That's an excellent business strategy."

 

END


End file.
